II
Pilar sat squeezed up against the window and thought how very odd the English smelt¹ . . . It was
what had struck her so far most forcibly about England—the difference of smell. There was no
garlic and no dust and very little perfume. In this carriage now there was a smell of cold stuffiness²
—the sulphur smell of the trains—the smell of soap and another very unpleasant smell—it came,
she thought, from the fur collar of the stout woman sitting beside her. Pilar sniffed³ delicately,
imbibing⁴ the odour of mothballs reluctantly. It was a funny scent⁵ to choose to put on yourself, she
thought.
A whistle blew, a stentorian⁶ voice cried out something and the train jerked slowly out of the
station. They had started. She was on her way. . . .
Her heart beat a little faster. Would it be all right? Would she be able to accomplish what she
had set out to do? Surely—surely—she had thought it all out so carefully . . . She was prepared for
every eventuality. Oh, yes, she would succeed—she must succeed. . . .
The curve of Pilar’s red mouth curved upwards⁷. It was suddenly cruel, that mouth. Cruel and
greedy—like the mouth of a child or a kitten—a mouth that knew only its own desires and that
was as yet unaware⁸ of pity.
She looked round her with the frank curiosity of a child. All these people, seven of them—
how funny they were, the English! They all seemed so rich, so prosperous—their clothes—their
boots—Oh! undoubtedly⁹ England was a very rich country as she had always heard. But they were

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